


Pearls after Swine

by Lady CAMo (LadeeCam0)



Category: Suede (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadeeCam0/pseuds/Lady%20CAMo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the ’90s song “Animal Nitrate” by Suede, a college senior confronts the societal demons of being a male sexual assault survivor.</p><p>CONTENT WARNING: There is one scene that is a prelude to a rape, but no descriptions of actual rape scenes are included. Roundabout discussions of rape does occur throughout the story. This is about the psychological and emotional effects of rape on survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pearls after Swine

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the archive warnings include "rape." If you are searching for a story with the hopes of being excited by rape or otherwise exploitative sex, you will be disappointed. Never will I write such things. Being a rape survivor myself, if I write fiction that deals with this topic it will be describing rape as the crime that it is. If you are aroused by rape, please seek help immediately. If you are aroused by the kink known as “consensual non-consent,” understand that this story does not address or include depictions of that kink.
> 
> Rape is rape, and it is always a crime. Plying people with drugs or alcohol to make it easier to “seduce” them is rape.
> 
> Consensual non-consent is a form of role-playing kink that revolves around and requires predetermined boundaries and a safe-word.

_I was resplendent, the picture-perfect blushing bride on her wedding night. I had been stunning in my iridescent white gown, the color being a symbol of what I was most certainly not: a virgin. My groom, though many years my senior, was absolutely dashing in his jet black tuxedo with its starched white shirt and blood red cummerbund and bow tie. Sometime during the reception we had found time to change, with him in black leather jacket, white polo, and khakis. I looked like I was ready for nightclub hookup in a clingy little black dress. A quick blowjob for him while the limo took us to our hotel, then into the honeymoon suite._

_Once over the threshold, he gets out the lube and poppers. I’m suddenly in a black leather corset and nothing else. Where my junk should be, I have a little prick somewhat like a large clit over a vaj._

“ _My glowing bride,” he breathes down my neck. “Mine, forever.”_

_I scream…_

 

“It’s okay!” I heard Amy shouting as the last of the nightmare’s frigid tendrils released their grip on me and were replaced by her warm embrace. “Bret, it’s okay! It was only a dream!”

Right! I reminded myself. I wasn’t in that bastard’s home, hotel room, or anywhere else with him. I was with Amy and her family at their cabin near Lake Tahoe, although the word “cabin” was a huge understatement. She and I were sleeping on two of the three sofas in the living room which made a rough U-shape around a square coffee table in front of the fireplace.

“Why is it always the same? And why is it always _him_?” I didn’t even mention his name, but she knew who I meant.

“Because he was an animal,” Amy spat. “A fuck-pig and he fucked you up!”

I drew a ragged breath, sitting up on the sofa. “What time is it.”

“Three-thirteen.”

It was like clockwork, no pun intended. If I had this nightmare, I’d wake up screaming at the same time, every time.

“Bret, I’m taking you to the support group when we get back to campus,” Amy announced, and there was no room for argument in her voice. “Let’s get you to the group. You won’t be the only guy there. And if you need it, the university health plan covers therapists.” She had a point, and I just nodded in resignation. I couldn’t fight these ghosts on my own anymore.

“Do you wanna try to get back to sleep?” she asked, smoothing my hair much the way my mom used to after—

_No!_

I wasn’t going to think about that.

“Yeah, I think that would be a good idea,” I replied, gently taking her hand from my hair. “It’s too early to get up.”

“Okay, hold on a sec.” She rummaged around in her duffle and found the speaker dock for her phone. “Let’s try this.” The sounds of surf gently washing ashore quietly drifted into the space between her sofa and mine.

She returned to her sofa and I lay back down again, hoping I would sleep without dreaming.

 

* * *

 

I woke from a dreamless sleep to the scent of eggs, potatoes, and processed pork products. Amy’s moms were making breakfast! I padded into the kitchen to find Amy there too, helping out. I was the only one who wasn’t currently helping prepare the food. I suddenly felt like shit about that. I should’ve been in there helping them.

And thinking of Dana as one of Amy’s moms was essential to me not totally losing my shit. I couldn’t deal with anyone who identified as a father figure at that point, and though Dana was Amy’s biological dad she was a mother figure nonetheless. Amy called her Mam; it was a play on a combination of Mom and Dad as well as ma’am. I called them Dee and Cee, for Dana and Carlie.

“Good morning, Bret,” Dee greeted me.

“Morning.”

“Amy was saying the two of you were going to visit campus today and overnight to meet up with some of your schoolmates,” Cee said, and I looked at Amy because I had no fucking clue what was going on.

“There was a text flurry early this morning,” Amy explained. A text flurry? I really needed a better cell carrier. I had only one bar. My reception up here was so bad I just kept my phone in airplane mode. “Francesca and some of the others who stayed at campus over the break thought we should all meet for pizza near school.”

“That’s at least a four hour drive from here!” I protested.

“Well, that’s why you guys would be staying overnight in your dorms,” Dee said brightly. “You drive for hours to get pizza, and we go skiing!” Her silly grin was infectious.

If Francesca was involved, then she and Amy were getting the support group together for an informal meeting. That was probably a really good idea. I’ve been toying with the idea of visiting the formal group. This would be a good way to test the waters.

For the time being, I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on what was happening in the moment. Breakfast was homey and friendly, but depressing at the same time. I mean, it was beautiful to see the family that Amy had. I had to wonder what that was like, and I was a little envious of her. I knew Mom loved me. But, it had been so hard to convince her that Dad had—

_Fuck._

I had to take my mind off that or I’d ruin the mood here. _Stay focused!_

Eventually, it was time for us to hit the road. Dee and Cee gave us money for gas and food, and our first stop on our way out of town was for mochas. Only once we were well under way, and properly caffeinated, did Amy start the convo I knew she’d been dying to start.

“Tell me the whole thing,” Amy asked. Although, she didn’t really ask. It was as if she’d given me a command while making it sound like a request at the same time.

Sigh.

“Why couldn’t Hank have been like Eddie?” I began. “Yeah, Eddie was forty when I was nineteen, and he was clear from the outset that he might have to move because of his job. But, I never felt lied to or used by him. He was genuine.”

“But you were only ten years older than his daughter,” Amy countered.

“Yeah, that was a little weird,” I admitted. “But he was completely honest from the very beginning. He told me his age, that he was divorced, had a kid, and might have to move if he got transferred at work. He had a really nice two-bedroom, two bath apartment. And, he gave his daughter the master suite, taking the smaller room and using the hall bathroom for himself. Who does that? He was perfect! And so I thought that maybe older men would be more mature than guys my age.”

“Yeah, I thought that about women, too,” Amy replied. “Though I haven’t had nearly the same problems you’ve had. I’ve had my hookups with older women thinking they’d be less likely to put me aside when then got tired of the baby dyke, and I was wrong. There’s woman in our group, Grace, who’s been through situations a lot like yours. She thought older women would be less flaky that women our own age, and she ended up getting abused by a couple of them.”

It was good to know that I wasn’t the only one who had fallen for the age describes maturity bullshit.

“None of the others were like Eddie,” I continued, trying to not sound wistful. “But Hank was the worst. He literally used me and the day after I turned twenty-one he dropped me like the fucking plague. And he’s clever, too. Turns out he’s known on the ’net for being the type of creep who looks for guys who’re eighteen to twenty-one. So even though he pretty much preys on young queer men, he’s very careful to look for guys who’re above the age of consent. Hank was a piece of work. Safe-words meant nothing to him. He’d just pretend his hearing was bad. But when you’re doped up on God knows what, you can barely speak much less remember the safe-word. I can’t count the number of times he drugged me. At first, I was curious about the whole ‘party and play’ thing. It didn’t take long for it to turn nasty. None of the others were like that.”

“How many partners did you have between Eddie and Hank?” Amy asked.

“Enough,” I replied ambiguously.

“And Hank wasn’t your only abuser, was he?”

Amy knew about my dad. Well, she didn’t know the details and she didn’t really need to. But she knew that he was my first abuser.

“Hank was my only real abuser as an adult,” I admitted. “Besides my dad when I was a kid, there was my first therapist, and I use the word ‘therapist’ loosely. I mean, there were folks who’d said that since I was a young teen boy, I should’ve been grateful that an adult woman wanted to … you know. I think I actually believed that sex therapy angle she tried to use with me for a while. I still don’t know why I didn’t just Google it to see if what she was doing was wrong.”

“Stigma,” Amy said. “When shit like that happens, it’s like even looking it up can be triggering.” We were both quiet for a while before she spoke again. “Is that why you haven’t seen a therapist at school? Because of what happened?”

“Maybe, and probably the whole ‘pray the gay away’ bullshit that went on Mom’s church,” I said. “They insisted it was a form therapy. Mom was certain that the trauma of Dad molesting me would make me gay, so she thought that her church could help me with that. Yeah, right. Never trust a church that won’t fly the Rainbow Flag.”

“You know I wouldn’t,” Amy replied, and I knew that her church hoisted Rainbow Flag high and proud. “And, didn’t you have an abuser from that so-called church?”

Sigh. I’d really forgotten just how much I’d told her.

“Yeah. Joshua, the youth group leader. He actually said that what he was doing was to make sure that I’d feel bad so that I’d know it was sin. That way, I wouldn’t be tempted to do gay stuff.” I paused. “Do people actually believe shit that like?”

“I don’t see how they can believe it,” Amy said. “But, there certainly seems to be a lot of people who say they do.”

“And if that wasn’t all, it’s like there’s this whole Internet community for creeps like Hank who look for guys who are between eighteen and twenty-one,” I spat. “Not only am I not the only one he did this to, there are others like him. And trying to prove that it wasn’t consensual will be tough since at first, I didn’t mind the poppers. But after a while…”

“We can debate the legal technicalities all we want,” Amy stated. “And, I really don’t want to. Hank raped you. So did your dad, your first therapist, and that Joshua guy. We’re gonna get you to the rape survivors’ group, and get you tested for STIs. You haven’t had any other partners since him?”

“No.” Shit, I’d been so freaked out by sex I hadn’t even been masturbating. I wasn’t about to share that with Amy. I only hoped that I’d be able to be that honest with a therapist.

“Grace at the survivors’ group really has a knack for finding respectful and trustworthy therapists,” Amy told me.

“That’s good to know.”

“Bret, remember,” Amy began earnestly. “Hank was an animal. So were your other molesters, even your dad.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“But you are a good person! Don’t doubt your worth because of the shitty way shitty people have treated you.”

Maybe she was right about me. She was definitely right about the men who raped me. Why did people do things like this?

Whatever.

The drive back into civilization just kind of evaporated in the easy conversation, and before I realized it we were in Berkeley, puling into Amy’s assigned parking place. It was actually better to park there and then go for a one mile walk than to try to find parking near the pizza place. At this point in the winter break, a lot of kids had already left town for their families meaning the pizza place wasn’t very crowded. That really worked for me. This was going to be my first time with this rape survivor’s group, and we’d be in public. I knew it was a goal of Francesca’s to normalize and destigmatize personal conversations about rape, but did my first time with this group have to be in public? I was really hoping for a safe space.

“We’ll be downstairs,” Amy said as we walked in. “Fran has a deal with the manager that if there aren’t any events scheduled for the room in the basement, we can use it. That way we can have a safe space off-campus, too.”

Well, it seemed that this meeting wouldn’t really be in public after all. That was actually really cool, and the basement wasn’t some dank, roach-infested hellhole. It was a multi-purpose room that had been used for performances and parties. And, apparently, support group meetings.

This group had a strict no-alcohol policy, which was too bad because this place had one of my favorite beers on tap. But at the same time, it was a good policy for this group. I wasn’t the only one who’d turned to alcohol in an attempt to dull the pain of what had happened to me. And the way I was feeling just then, there was the possibility I’d have too much to drink if given the opportunity.

It seemed the pizza place didn’t have a policy against outside drinks, at least for this meeting. Francesca had brought a gallon of chocolate milk and a half-gallon of eggnog, both of which I used to prepare one of my favorite alcohol-free mixed drinks. Yeah: chocolate milk and eggnog together in the same glass at the same time.

Don’t read that in that tone of voice! What’s wrong with chocolate milk mixed with eggnog? Y’all don’t know me.

Anyway, folks dribbled in and it wasn’t long before the group was about to get started.

Francesca and Amy set things up so that I would be the last one to check in. Fran was first, and Amy went just before me. There were only seven of us total: five women and two men. Francesca went first, detailing how she was raped by her senior year prom date. Grace’s story was much like mine, only she was lesbian. She, too, had thought that older partners would be more mature than women her own age. It turned out she was the only one in the group who’d never been raped by men. She’d only ever been raped by women. Irena had the classic story of getting drunk and passing out at a frat house party. She was ganged raped while unconscious. She left that university and transferred to ours here in Berkeley to get away from her attackers and a school that didn’t do shit about them.

Larissa had a complicated story. She’d once date-raped a girlfriend by coercing her into sex. They’d been sexual before and Larissa’s girlfriend wasn’t in the mood one night but she talked her into it anyway. They broke up not long after that and eventually she found a boyfriend. It turned out he was never in love with her, but was a friend of Larissa’s girlfriend. He raped Larissa as retribution for what she’d done. I thought that she would have trouble being accepted by the rape survivor’s group, but everyone said she didn’t deserve to be raped even knowing that she had once raped someone. Miguel, the only other guy in the group, struggled with that even as he tried to be supportive of her. He was a biromantic homosexual, and had been coerced into sex by a girlfriend. So, he had been in a situation very similar to Larissa’s girlfriend.

I knew only part of Amy’s story, and I hadn’t realized how much she’d endured over the years. I knew the she’d been subjected to the _too beautiful to be a dyke here have sex with a man and you’ll see what you’re missing_ bullshit, but that somebody raped her because they were pissed that one of her parents was trans? That was utterly astonishing.

Finally, it was my turn. In spite of how awkward I’d felt when things first got started, I was feeling like I could trust everyone, including Larissa. Really, her story seemed to challenge the _once a rapist always a rapist_ narrative. Yeah, I could share my story with this group.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “Hi. I’m Bret, and I’m a rape survivor.”

 


End file.
